


All Right

by Mad_Maudlin



Category: SGA - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:50:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Maudlin/pseuds/Mad_Maudlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, John gets tired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Right

When John has spent the day butting heads with Elizabeth or Caldwell or Lorne (not that Lorne actually argues with him, oh no, but he is a professional 2IC and an expert on passive-aggression) or Rodney—christ, Rodney, who needs to be kept on a goddamn leash for his own good before he either blows up Atlantis or gets assassinated by his own staff—

When John has spent an afternoon training new personnel, all SGC recruits who lost their sense of wonder in some Milky Way 'gate and don't break their professional cool for anything, not even the jumpers (and how can you not like the _jumpers?_) except maybe when Teyla shows up in that skirt and kicks all their asses one-handed—

When John has been up half the night reading and writing and signing off on reports and requisitions and letters on behalf of the dead—

In short, when John has been playing his part: Lieutentant Colonel Sheppard, military commander, and yeah, it's got a nice ring to it, but sometimes he wants to complain that he never auditioned for this role, he wasn't even the goddamn understudy, and anyway, the costume doesn't fit right. It's not so bad on missions, when it's just him and the team, and all he has to worry about is natives trying to trade for Teyla, or Rodney screwing up, freaking out, going into anaphylactic shock and/or offending said natives. Possibly all at the same time. It's a nice, finite set of worries and they can all be solved with proper application of firepower, elbows and lemons. (Not usually all at the same time, but when Rodney got going)—

But John gets tired, sometimes.

Ronon doesn't say anything—well, ever, almost—but especially not when John shows up at his quarters at weird hours of the night with a head full of Lorne's careful non-smirks and sneering Marines and the thanks of a grateful nation. He doesn't even stop whatever he's doing, which is usually knife-related, while John slouches against the closed doors and rubs his eyes. Ronon just comes to a stopping point, looks up, and says, "Hey."

"Hey," is all John has to say.

It's not particularly Lieutentant Colonel-y of him, he knows that. Not because of regulations. More because he doesn't think Lieutenant Colonels are supposed to get off on being pressed against walls, pounded into the bed, wrapped up around a guy who's probably ten years younger and four inches taller and _big._ Lieutenant Colonels are not supposed to enjoy this weight on top of them, are not supposed to let themselves be molded into position like this, boneless and needy and naked even before the clothes come off.

John is, of course, a very bad Lieutenant Colonel.

Ronon takes the lead, and John knows that's just fine, because Ronon is the one person, the only person, he doesn't have to worry about. Ronon's one of the few people he doesn't have to fight with. Ronon will go wherever he leads, and John figures it's only fair to return the favor, like this, shivering on hands and knees.

"All right?" Ronon asks after, when they're not really cuddling but also not moving to fast to untangle their limbs.

John rubs his face against Ronon's rough palm. "Am now."


End file.
